


Ain't Gonna Be Mercy

by O4amuse



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, Dean's Room, Demon Dean, Devil's Trap, Episode: s10e18 Book of the Damned, Established Relationship, M/M, Mark of Cain, Men of Letters Bunker, Post-Episode: s10e03 Soul Survivor, Redemption, Room 7B, Ruby's Knife, Sad Ending, Sad Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-18 17:25:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4714289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/O4amuse/pseuds/O4amuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“And what I'm gonna do to you, Sammy, well, that ain't gonna be mercy either.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unbreakable

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Strong Black Vine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4413944) by [shaenie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaenie/pseuds/shaenie). 
  * Inspired by [Say Something](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/142139) by 00shelly77. 



Sam stumbled a little on his way down the steps into the bunker, exhaustion making him clumsy. The shopping bag banged painfully against his knee and ripped. A ketchup bottle fell out, rolled through the banisters, and fell with a crash and a splatter of red on the floor at Castiel’s feet. He looked up as Sam cursed wearily.

  “Are you alright?”

  “Yeah, Cas. It’s just sauce. I’ll clean it up later.”

  The angel nodded. “I can help you sleep if you wish.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll be out as soon as I hit the pillow.” Sam tried to smile. It felt stiff, unfamiliar. “Go on, man, you have stuff to do.”

  “Yes.” Castiel didn’t move. “Dean is concerned that you no longer love him.”

  “He said that?”

  “Not exactly. He asked if you wished for a divorce.”

  Sam snorted. “Drama queen. I’ll talk to him. Thanks, Cas. For everything.”

  “Call me if…”

  “If the Mark gets worse.”

Castiel tightened his mouth and gave a nod. He walked up the stairs, leaning a little heavily on the banisters. Sam felt a pang of concern shoot through his chest, but it was muffled by tiredness. He stepped round the exploded ketchup and carried the bag of congealing fast food down to Dean’s room.

It was empty.

Sam stood in the doorway and tried hard not to panic. This was too close to before, when he’d carried his brother’s corpse into the room, and gone to summon Crowley, and come back to absence. Castiel had been here - surely Dean couldn’t have turned so fast, couldn’t have got out again. Please God let him still be himself, and here.

He put the takeaway bag down on the dresser and drew his gun. The memory of a fast-moving hammer was too near to ignore. Then he moved silently through the corridors of his home, hunting.

There was a light on in Room 7B. Sam peered cautiously round the edge of the door. The back shelves had been pushed aside and Dean was standing in the devil’s trap, staring at the chair. Sam hadn’t had time to tidy up yet. The table of syringes and blood, the chains, the sweat and holy water and rust-coloured spots on the floor kept the last few days fresh in the room. Sam swallowed back bile. Why had his brother come back here?

  “Dean?” Dean looked around quickly and Sam inhaled with relief at his clear green eyes. “What’cha doing?”

  “Nothing.” Dean’s hand swept up his right arm to cover the Mark tightly. “Weren’t you going to get food?”

  “Yeah, it’s in your room but you -”

  “Right.” Dean swung the shelves back into place and snapped off the light. “Is there pie?”

  “Of course.”

It was an attempt to get back to normal, Sam knew, but forced. Too many raw edges on both of them, too easy to cut. Dean wouldn’t meet his eyes, flinched away from his body as they moved down the corridor. It would take time, Sam told himself. They’d be okay, they’d figure out their rhythm again, it would just take time.

All the while, that Mark would eat away at his brother, eroding the few surfaces that weren’t already pitted with demonic black and guilt.

Dean went straight to his room and ripped open the bag, wolfing down lukewarm chips by the fistful. Sam watched, shoulder propped against the doorway, and tried to smile again.

  “Dude, slow down. You’ll give yourself heartburn.”

  “I ain’t eaten in months,” Dean said with his mouth full. “I’ll risk a bit of indigestion.”

Sam looked him over again, never getting tired of it. Those high cheekbones were standing a little prouder than usual, and there were inches missing from an already trim waist. Sam had the sudden urge to pull up his brother’s shirt and count the ribs underneath, trace the jutting hip-bones, kiss the hollow of his clavicle. It had been so long, in fear and uncertainty and grinding grief. Two steps brought him to Dean’s side, hand rising.

  Dean startled away, one arm coming up protectively between them. “Sam…”

  He clenched his fist, pulled it back. “Sorry.”

  “I can’t -”

  “It’s fine. I’m sorry.”

He walked quickly out, down the corridor, into the bathroom. Locked the door, turned on the shower as hard and hot as it would go, shed his clothes. Once he was under the scalding noise of the water, he let himself exhale the shuddering breath that was too close to a sob. He was just tired, that’s all it was. It had been a long week, year, decade. He leaned into the pounding heat, both palms flat against the tiles, and bowed his head. The water hid his tears.

He stayed in there until the combination of hot skin and empty belly made him feel dizzy. Then he staggered across to his own room and fell into bed. He was asleep before his hand made it back from turning out the lamp.

He dreamed of Lester Morris, standing in moonlight at the crossroads, and the wind whispered ‘which of us is really the monster?’ in Dean’s voice.

  “Hi, Sammy,” came a dreaded memory of a voice. Sam spun in treacle, whole body prickling cold. Lucifer smiled at him, glowing in a moonbeam. “Long time, no spooning.”

  “No. You’re not real. Cas fixed me.”

  “Really?” Lucifer tapped a finger to his brain. “All that’s messed up in your brainpan, you think one little broken angel can fix it?”

  “Stay away from me!”

  “Oh, don’t get your panties in a twist. I don’t go where I’m not wanted, you know that.” Lucifer smiled, all shark-teeth and peeling dimples. “Besides, your big bro is way more interesting these days. Dean Winchester, Knight of Hell and Cain, Mk. 2. Your daddy would be so proud.”

  “Don’t you touch him,” Sam growled, clenching his fists.

  Behind him, Lester Morris chanted mangled Latin. “Freak,” the wind whispered in Dean’s voice.  

  Lucifer gave a theatrical shiver. “Ooh, I love it when you get macho with me. But he’s already mine, Sammy, or as good as. That Mark belonged to me first, you know.”

  “Shut up!”

  “He made a smoking hot demon, I have to admit. No wonder Crowley was panting at his heels. And other body parts.” Lucifer leered. “Does that make you jealous, Sam-boy?”

  “I said shut up!”

The shout woke him, panting, sweat trickling down his neck. He reached automatically for Dean, forgetting until his hand found only empty sheets. Nausea flooded his body, uncontained by Dean’s strong arms and soothing voice. Sam stumbled to the bathroom and vomited into the toilet. Then he splashed cold water on his face, washing away the sweat and bile, and looked into the mirror.

There’d been a film on freeview years ago, lifetimes ago, in a crappy motel room where Dad had left them whilst he hunted. Bruce Willis figuring out he was a real-life superhero. Dean raising his beer and wishing he had bones that wouldn’t break.

_“When did you first know things weren’t working out between us?”_ Bruce’s screen-wife asked.

_“I had a nightmare, and I didn’t wake you up to tell me it was okay.”_

There were dark circles under Sam’s red-rimmed eyes, and new lines on his forehead. He ran a shaking hand through his lank hair and drew a ragged breath. Then he went to find his brother.

Dean wasn’t in his room again; wasn’t in the kitchen, or the library, or even in the garage working on Baby. Eventually, drawn like a lodestone, Sam found himself back outside Room 7B. The door was shut this time, and no light filtered around the edges. Nonetheless, he tried the handle and it gave into the shadowy storage space. At first he thought it too was empty. But one of the shelves wasn’t fully back in its groove. Sam moved forward on silent bare feet and peered through the gap.

There were five candles placed around the devil’s trap, at points of the pentagram. In the middle sat Dean, his ankles and right wrist strapped to the chair. His chin was resting on his chest, eyes closed. Sam’s hand trembled on the shelves, air rasping roughly across his throat. Had he dreamed the cure? Was his brother still a demon, still black-eyed and implacable? He wrenched the shelf aside and Dean jerked, blinking sleep out of his eyes. His green eyes.

  “Sam…” Sam grabbed the canteen of holy water on the table and flung its contents. It caught Dean across the face and he coughed, spluttering. “Dude, what the hell?”

  He wasn’t steaming, wasn’t writhing. Sam could have wept. “You’re not a demon.”

  “Didn’t we just finish doing this?”

  “Why are you here?”

  Dean’s face closed. He wiped the water from his face with his free hand. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “So you came back to the dungeon?” Sam said on a rising voice.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to piss you off.” Dean started unbuckling his other wrist.

  “I’m not… I’m not pissed off, Dean, I’m worried about you.”

Dean didn’t answer. He finished untying himself, and went round the room snuffing the candles. The death of the fifth left only a sliver of light filtering through from the corridor. Sam couldn’t see his brother in the dark, couldn’t hear him moving. The only warning he got was the prickle down his arms, and then Dean’s eyes gleamed next to him.

  “Come on, you need some rest.”

  “Why were you down here?”

  “Come on,” Dean said again. “I thought you’d gone to bed already.”

  “I had a nightmare.” Sam let himself be herded out, abruptly too tired to fight.

  “Yeah? It’s okay, Sam. I won’t let anything get you.”

Sam smiled as if he believed it and started towards his room, whilst Dean finished pulling the shelves into place. He knew he wasn’t supposed to hear the last thing his brother said; nearly turned back for it, but wasn’t awake enough to process properly.

  “Not even me.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Film referenced is the 2000 film 'Unbreakable'.


	2. 10 Things I Hate About You

They took it easy for a week. No hunts, not even looking for one. Dean caught up on _Game of Thrones_ , then mainlined _Boardwalk Empire_. Sam tried not to mind that he did so without sharing the same sofa, or even stealing Sam’s popcorn.

After day three of downtime, Dean got restless and started cleaning. He scrubbed every pan in the kitchen until it gleamed. He washed every towel and sheet. He mopped the floor of the dungeon, wiped down the showers, gave Baby a bath.

  “You should probably wear gloves,” Sam remarked, when he walked into the library with a bottle of Jif and a cloth. “That stuff can do horrible things to your skin.”

  “Worse than shifter blood?” Dean started on the desks. “What you reading?”

  “The Books of Meqabyan. Alternative Old Testament. I was hoping they'd reference Cain.”

  “But no luck.”

  Sam sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “No luck. And the print’s making my eyes hurt.”

  “Maybe you need glasses, like a proper nerd.” Dean coughed into his hand. “You should get some of those hipster rims.”

  “I’m not a hipster.”

  “Got the hair for it.”

  “Screw you, my hair was like this before it was cool.”

  “You saying you’re more hipster than the hipsters?”

  “Did I imagine all those times you said you loved burying your fingers in it?” Sam scrunched up a page of useless notes and threw it at his brother. Dean flinched, letting it bounce off his shoulder, and didn’t reply. Sam straightened up with a concerned expression. “What?”

  “Nothing. It’s fine.”

  “Dean-”

  “I said it’s fine,” Dean snapped. He drew in a sharp breath, closed his eyes and carefully released the death-grip on the cloth. “I’m going to start dinner.”

  Sam stood up. “I’ll come with you.”

  “I don’t need a babysitter, Sam.”

Dean strode out of the library, leaving Sam staring. He didn’t quite understand what had gone wrong. For a moment they were working together, same old banter, same old easy affection. Could it really have been the harmless paper missile? Was this some kind of PTSD associated with stationery?

It was frustration, more than anything else, which drove Sam to the door of Dean’s bedroom. He wanted his brother back, and it might never happen if he didn’t understand what was going on. Dean wouldn’t tell him so he’d just have to figure it out on his own. He eased the door open, careful of tell-tale squeaking, and flicked the lights. The room was military-levels of tidy, one of many habits ingrained by their dad. Weapons on the wall, photos and ammo on the dresser, music on the shelf. There was a pile of laundry, neatly folded, sitting at the end of the bed to be put away. A box of Busty Asian Beauties back-issues tucked under the nightstand. And a spray can of paint in the trash. Sam frowned, picked it out. Empty. What had Dean been painting in here?

He found it under the bed. A devil’s trap, the most complex version they knew. Sam sat back on his heels, throat working for a moment, and then he called Castiel.

  “Sam. What’s wrong?”

  “He’s got a devil’s trap under his bed and he still won’t look at me.”

  There was a brief pause at the end of the line. “He is afraid,” Castiel said at last.

  “That he’ll turn again?”

  “That if he does, he will hurt you.”

  Sam rubbed his mouth. “The first night, I found him sleeping in the dungeon. D’you think -”

  “He was taking precautions. Yes.”

  “What are the chances of it happening?”

  “I don’t know. But the fact he is being careful suggests the Mark does not have too strong a hold yet. This is encouraging.”

  “Encouraging,” Sam said flatly. “My brother’s so scared of himself that he’s sleeping inside a devil’s trap.”

  “He still cares enough about the safety of others that he is willing to be restricted,” Castiel corrected.

  “I guess. Don’t suppose you’ve found anything that might help?”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Yeah, me neither.” Sam sighed and got to his feet. “Okay, thanks, Cas.”

With this new insight, Sam took another look around the room. He found a pair of demon-cuffs in the drawer of the nightstand, and a fresh groove in the footboard that looked like it might have been made by a chain. He rubbed the back of his neck, swallowing against the twist in his gut. No wonder they weren’t falling back into their old patterns. Dean was deliberately keeping him at a distance, from some delusional notion of protection. Well, screw that.

The kitchen smelled of frying onion. Dean was busy chopping mushrooms, made a little clumsy by thin blue catering gloves. He barely glanced up as Sam entered.

  “It won’t be ready for another half hour.”

  “Beer?”

  “Thanks.”

  Sam fetched two, took the caps off and passed one across. He gestured at the gloves. “You’re more careful of mushrooms than bleach?”

  “You don’t want bleach in your mushrooms, do you?”

  “Fair.” Sam took a swig and weighed his next words carefully. “You know I’m not made of glass, right?”

  Dean raised an eyebrow. “I still ain’t gonna poison you with household chemicals.”

  “I’m not talking about the bleach.”

  “What, then?”

  Sam bit the edge of his tongue. “The devil’s trap. Not touching me. Not even looking.”

  “You went in my room,” Dean said, an edge to his voice.

  “I want to help, Dean, but I can’t if you won’t let me near you.”

   Dean started to reply, then turned away and coughed into his hand. He grimaced, stripped off the glove and threw it in the trash before tugging a new one from a box on the counter. “You could help by setting the table.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I noticed.” He flexed his jaw, then bowed his head over the mushrooms again. “If I look at you, I’ll wanna touch you. But I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can.” Sam moved closer but Dean raised the knife between them. “Is this about the whole trying to kill me with a hammer thing? Because that wasn’t you, Dean.”

  “Wasn’t it?”

  “No, it wasn’t. You think I can’t tell the difference?”

  “I think you’re not careful enough around me. What if I turn again? What if the Mark takes control, huh? By the time you work it out, you’ll be dead.”

  Sam reached over the knife and cupped his hand around Dean’s chin. He felt the tremble run through his brother, saw the muscles lock. “I can take care of myself. And I trust you.”

  “I don’t,” Dean said hoarsely.

  “I know. But can you trust me?”

  “Why?”

  Sam forced a smile. “I have an idea.”

They ate dinner first. Dean still didn’t have much of an appetite but it didn’t stop him being a surprisingly good cook. He put more salt in things lately, Sam noticed, as if he was trying to constantly prove his non-demonhood. Not that Sam minded - plenty of salt was the only way to make cheap diner food palatable and his tastebuds had atrophied years ago. When they’d finished, he left Dean doing the dishes as usual and went down to the dungeon.

Everything had been cleaned and tidied, restraints carefully coiled. He found what he was looking for easily and carried it all up to Dean’s room. By the time Dean came looking for him, he was just lighting the five candles placed strategically around the room.

  “Very romantic,” Dean drawled, leaning against the doorway. “What next? We gonna eat ice cream and watch _10 Things I Hate About You_?”

  “I thought we could have an early night. Neither of us have been sleeping well.” Sam stripped off his shirts and kicked his shoes loose.

  Dean straightened up, brow lowering. “Sam… I can’t…”

  “I know.” He pulled back the sheet to reveal four wide leather cuffs, all inscribed with sigils, on long ropes tied to the bed posts. “You won’t be able to hurt me.”

  Dean looked at the bed and his pupils flared. A muscle rolled in his jaw. “Are you sure?”

  “If this is the only way to have you, I’m very sure.”

There was a moment of tense silence. Sam watched as Dean made up his mind to trust - something his brother had never found easy. Then Dean abruptly tugged his shirt over his head, undid his belt and dropped his pants. His body shone golden in the candlelight, all highlights and shadows, compact muscle in beautiful curves. Sam could feel himself responding and gritted his teeth. This wasn’t the time.

  He nodded towards the bed. “Lie down.”

Dean moved past him without a word and arranged himself on the mattress. Mouth dry, Sam leaned over him, doing up one cuff after another. Dean tested the strength and slack of the rope, nodding slightly when he couldn’t move his limbs more than an inch.

  “This is better than I could manage. Thanks.”

  “Sure.” Sam shucked off his jeans.

  Dean’s eyes narrowed abruptly. “What're you doing?”

  “Getting ready for bed.”

Sam sat on the edge and took a thigh sheath from the nightstand, already holding Ruby’s knife. He strapped it on, dark leather against his pale skin, and swung his legs up. Dean tried to scoot away and ran hard against the limits of his restraints.

  “No, Sam.”

  “You’re tied up, I’m armed, and we both sleep better together.”

  “You don’t, you can’t, I’m not -”

  “Ssh.” Sam ran his palm in a smooth sweep down Dean’s trembling skin, shoulder to hip. “Trust me. I’m safe, and I’ve made you safe. Go to sleep.”

He rolled onto his side, tugging a pillow out from under the rope, and kept soothing with slow strokes along Dean’s ribs. Eventually the shivering eased off and Dean’s breathing evened out. With the first unforced smile in many long months, Sam fell into dreamless sleep.

 


	3. The Little Death

Sam was dragged back to consciousness by the sound of Dean coughing. Deep, phlegmy, lung-racking coughs. He rolled up onto his elbow, rubbing gunk from his eyes, and came fully awake fast at the liberal spattering of blood-spots on the pillow next to him. Dean coughed again, more blood catching his lips, and dragged in a rattling breath.

  “Shit!”

Sam fumbled at the wrist cuffs, dragging them off, and helped his brother sit up. Dean hacked up his guts, catching the blood in a tissue that Sam passed him. There was sweat on his forehead and the back of his neck. Sam rubbed circles between his shoulder blades and held a canteen of water ready. Finally he straightened up, pale-skinned, and drank deep.

  “Thanks,” he said hoarsely, passing the canteen back.

  “This happen a lot?”

  “It’s been getting worse.” Dean wiped his mouth on his forearm. “Crowley says it’s the Mark.”

  “Christ, Dean, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “This ain’t a case of running to the drugstore for some Tylenol. I know what I need and you can’t help.”

  “Try me.”

  Dean focused on his hands, head low. “I gotta kill. That’s what Crowley had me doing. The Mark makes me a death-junkie.”

  “Huh.” Sam lay back, keeping his voice deliberately casual. “You’re right, the drugstore won’t stock that. Maybe we should get back to hunting.”

  “Except I’m not safe, and this,” Dean picked up and dropped a wrist-cuff, “we can’t do this on the road, Sam. It slows me down too much.”

  “I could, I dunno… bring stuff back alive and let you kill it.”

  “Too dangerous for you. And that makes me sound like some kind of pet.”

  “You’d look good in a collar.” Sam froze, shocked by his own brain. Where the hell had that come from?

  The candles guttered. Dean turned his head slowly, face mostly in shadow. “This ain’t about that.” But there was a hitch, a breathiness in his voice.

  “I know.” The candlelight warmed Dean’s skin, gilding the curve of his neck, his spine. The sheet was bunched around his hips, white on tan. There were marks on his wrist from the cuffs. Sam’s chest rose and fell quickly. “But we could also make it fun.”

  “Sam…”

  “I’ve missed you. And I know you don’t trust yourself right now, but if I make you safe, if you know you aren’t a risk, maybe you’ll relax. And maybe that’ll help.”

  “I don’t think you can cure the Mark of Cain with sex.”

  Sam shrugged, trying to look casual and failing spectacularly. “Worth a try. The French call it ‘la petite mort’.”

He could hear Dean’s fast breathing, see his ribs moving. He was thinking about it, Sam could tell, he was surely tempted, but he could be a stubborn bastard sometimes. When he got an idea into his head - like, for example, that he was too dangerous to touch - words weren’t going to shift it. He had to be shown.

  Sam moved fast. He rolled up onto one knee, got his other leg over Dean’s hips, and pressed Ruby’s knife to his brother’s throat. “Lie down.”

  Dean’s mouth opened in surprise. “Sam…”

Sam cut him off with a brutal kiss, plundering his mouth, taking his words. His hands fluttered at Sam’s waist, still not touching, providing no leverage. Sam rocked slightly, pressing his erection against Dean’s stomach. He could feel his brother swelling under his buttocks. Yes, this was going to work. He pulled back, panting, and the sight of Dean’s blown pupils and reddened lips tugged with painful desire.

  “I said, lie down.”

Slowly, never breaking eye-contact, Dean lay back. The knife gleamed silver against his throat, beautiful and dangerous. Sam pressed down, a warning, and then stretched across him to secure his wrists. Their skin brushed, heat arcing between them. After so long without contact, every touch was loaded.

Sam sat up and looked at his brother, spread out beneath him. The sight choked him. Dean’s skin was liquid gold in the candlelight, muscles bunched against the tension of the ropes. His lips were parted, teeth catching the bottom one, and his eyes were huge in his high-planed face. Sam had never wanted him more.

  “You should see yourself,” Dean said, his voice gravel under velvet. “This a kink of yours, Sammy?”

  Sam rocked back a little, nudging Dean’s cock, and laughed at the indrawn breath. “Not just mine.”

  “Do that again.”

  Instinct tickled at Sam’s brain. He set the knife aside carefully. “No.”

Dean’s nostrils flared. He pulled hard against the restraints, bucked up against Sam’s weight. Sam got off him to stand by the bed, and yanked the sheet away. Dean was left fully exposed, star-fished, strung out across the mattress without leverage or give. His fists clenched, toes curled, as he fought silently against the cuffs.

  “You can’t move,” Sam said softly. “You’re not in control, you’re safe. I’m here, Dean, I’ll take care of you, take charge. You can’t hurt me, you’re safe. It’s okay.”

Dean’s breathing was ragged, every muscle locked. There were tears on his cheeks but he never blinked, never looked away, his pupils ringed with the thinnest band of green. Pre-come glistened on his stomach. Sam leaned over and licked it off in one long stripe. Dean shuddered mutely.

  Sam moved to the foot of the bed and ran his tongue over Dean’s ankles, where the leather bit into skin. “You’re not in control,” he breathed against the wetness.

Dean clenched from toe to hip, a low moan escaping his chest, and then every muscle in his legs relaxed. Sam put his hands over the cuffs and ran them slowly up over Dean’s shins, knees, thighs, to rest on his hipbones. He leaned his weight, pushing Dean into the mattress, holding him still against the instinctive bucking resistance. Then he lowered his head and licked along Dean’s burning length, revelling in the heat and need of it.

  “Sammy,” Dean rasped.

  Sam moved up his body, framing his chest in strong thighs, grasping his shoulders with firm hands. “I’m here, I’m safe, I’ve got you. Let go, Dean. You’re safe, it’s okay to let go.”

Dean’s arms gave like suddenly warm putty, soft beneath Sam’s hands. He rocked back, feeling Dean’s cock sliding between his cheeks, and clenched. There was a soft moan, higher-pitched, easy. Dean’s lids stuttered, his eyes rolling back. Sharp tenderness coiled in Sam’s throat. He leaned forward and kissed him, lingering on open lips, teasing with the tip of his tongue. Dean unfurled beneath him, obedient, relaxed. He gave Sam his noise, his breath, soft and sweet. Sam wiped the tears from his cheeks, planted butterfly kisses along his jaw-line, sucked gently at the lobe of his ear. He stroked from carotid to hip, trailing fingertips followed by flickering tongue. He scraped his teeth along the sweep of Dean’s lower rib, eliciting a purring groan.

When he took Dean’s cock into his mouth, there was another moment of tension. Muscles locked as Dean tried to push up. Sam held him still, a strong palm on his stomach, and the effort leaked away with a sigh. Sam lapped at the dripping head, then ran his tongue down the vein.

  “Sam…” Dean’s voice was low, slurring.

  “I know.”

Sam’s blood was lava, slow-moving and incendiary. His chest felt bound by iron, tight enough to crack ribs. His cock was a beacon, lighting up his world and pointing the way. He grabbed the lube from the drawer and filled his right hand. Then he took Dean’s cock in one hand and leaned back with the other to slid a finger into his hole. It wasn’t enough, not nearly enough, but the promise of more to come made him sigh.

  Dean’s eyelids flickered and his lips parted. “So fucking hot…”

Sam grinned, teeth feral. He shuffled round so Dean could see and added a second finger. Dean’s cock surged wetly under his hand. Sam closed his eyes and threw his head back, imagining his brother’s heat inside him. He brushed against his prostate, arching his spine on a moan of pleasure. More, he needed more, needed everything.

Another fistful of lube. He straddled Dean and lowered himself. The pressure against his hole was deliciously breath-taking. He spread his knees wider, held Dean steady, and pushed, pushed, down, in, filling, sheathing, lava roaring in his ears and through his groin. The noise from Dean’s mouth was filthy wordless music, urging him on, on, Mariana Trench deep, until Dean was in down to the root and there was no space left for air.

He looked down, glorying in the long stretch of his brother, held still, motionless, laid out for him like a gift. His for the taking. He rocked a little, feeling the length of Dean inside him, stretching him. Thighs clenched, he raised himself up and slid back down, the dark-red pressure building. Dean’s hands clenched and released. Another slow rise and fall; Dean pushed his head back into the pillow, raising his chin. Up and down, out and in, in, claiming him, faster and faster, riding hard, need whipping through his mind, black clouds building stormfronts in his lungs, higher and higher and harder and harder, thunder rolling through his body and out of his mouth. One hand on Dean’s burning skin, the other gripping his pulsing cock, he rode them both into the tempest until white lightning cracked through his brain and split his chest, blinding in its intensity, and he came with a broken cry, convulsing around his surging brother.

He caught himself on trembling arms and gazed at Dean, all parted lips and flushed skin. He looked at peace, relaxed after release. Sam dropped a tender kiss on his forehead and he opened his eyes on a smile.

  “Hey there, cowboy.”

  Sam shoved him gently. “Call me cowboy again and I’ll make you dress like a pony.”

  “Not my thing.”

  “No.” Sam felt Dean going soft inside him and breathed through the last aftershock. “How’re you feeling?”

  Dean’s brows twitched. “It wasn’t about that either.”

  “But?”

  He drew a deep breath, testing, and exhaled slowly. “Better, actually. Less, um, murderously tense.”

  Sam grinned, the sun rising on his face. “And you said the Mark couldn’t be cured by sex.”

  “I don’t think I’m exactly cured, Sam.”

  “Hey, give me a chance. This was one round.”

Sam eased off him, standing up to stretch out his hips, and walked to the bathroom. When he came back with a damp cloth, Dean was looking at the ceiling with a thoughtful expression.

  “How…” he said, bit the tip of his tongue, tried again. “How did you know what to say?”

  Sam shrugged a shoulder, gently wiping his groin clean. “It just came to me. You’re always in charge, always feeling like you have to take care of everything. That kind of responsibility brings its own tension. I thought, maybe, if you couldn’t be in control, if it wasn’t an option, it might force you to relax.”

  “It felt like… I dunno. Something snapped in my head. I couldn’t think. And I knew I couldn’t move so I didn’t even try. I was still here, but apart. There was just… feeling.”

  Sam nodded. “Little death.”

  “Death never felt like that before.”

  “It means spiritual release, dumbass, not actual decease.” Sam put the cloth down and reached for the cuffs.

  “No,” Dean said quickly. “Not yet. I can’t… I’m drifting, Sammy. If you take ‘em off, I’ll have to be on guard again. Not yet.”

Sam looked at him for a long moment. There was still an edge to him, a predatory air, but it was faded, pushed back. And now he’d got it into his head that the cuffs could bring that, it was more likely they would. No harm reinforcing it. He left them alone and slid back into bed, sprawling loosely across Dean’s body, soaking up his heat, his scent. They dozed, at peace.


	4. Secret Diary of a Call Girl

Sam went back through all the books that had any mention of the Mark of Cain. He cross-referenced; he re-translated. In the end, he tracked Dean down in the laundry room, scrubbing blood out of the pillowcase by hand.

  “I don’t understand,” he said, pinching at the bridge of his nose to make his headache recede.

  “Understand what?”

  “There’s no reference in any of the texts to sex helping with the Mark.”

  Dean gave him a ‘seriously, Sam?’ look. “No idiot usually sticks around to screw the baddest murderer in Creation. We’re breaking new ground, here.”

  “But you feel better?”

  “For the hundredth time, yes. A bit. I mean, I think your French theory is dodgy as all hell, but I’m willing to give it a shot.”

  “And hey, the worst outcome is we get laid.”

  Dean shook his head, looking down at his soapy hands. “Not even close.”

  “Dean.” Sam gripped his shoulder. “Nothing’s gonna happen. I won’t let it.”

  “You think rope and paint can stop me if I go full-on Sith?”

  “They’ll slow you down. Trust me.”

  “If I didn’t trust you I wouldn’t be letting you hog-tie me.” Dean wrung out the pillowcase and hung it over the clothes rack to dry. “I’m doubting the materials.”

  “So we use something stronger.” Dean gave him a sharp, slanting look. “What?”

  “You’re surprisingly okay with all this.”

  Sam shrugged. “It’s a way I can help. And it works.”

  “We don’t know that yet.”

  “I don’t mean the coughing, although, yeah, if it stops you having to kill every day then great.”

  “Then what?”

  Sam ran a hand through his hair, trying to find the right words. “It’s a mental thing too, right? If you believe something’ll work, it often does.”

  “So you’re saying putting me in chains is like a, a placebo for the Mark?” Dean pushed past him into the corridor. “That’s some first class horsecrap.”

  “No, Dean, that’s not what I -” Sam followed him towards the garage. “If you’re confident you can’t get loose, you’ll relax, and if you’re relaxed then you’re not angry.”

  “Genius, Dr. Phil.”

  “And if you’re not angry,” Sam persisted, “then the Mark isn’t as strong. Or awake, or whatever.” He paused as Dean started filling a bucket from the garage tap. “Dude, what are you doing?”

  “Washing the car.”

  “Didn’t you just do that? Like, yesterday?”

  “Can’t a man give his wheels some attention?” Dean plunked the bucket next to the Impala. “What’s the matter, Sam, you jealous?”

  “No.” Sam straightened up, folding his arms. “Dean, what’s with the cleaning frenzy? You fight me for years about whose turn it is to do laundry, and now suddenly you’re Susie Homemaker.”

  “Nothing wrong with taking a little pride in your home.”

  “But-”

  “Don’t you have research to do?”

Sam watched in silence as Dean plunged a big yellow sponge into the soapy water with both hands, before slapping it on Baby’s roof. Suds slopped down the windows. Dean began  whistling tunelessly between his teeth as he scrubbed the car’s spotless paint. After a while, Sam left him to it and went in search of coffee.

He sat at the kitchen table, mug cradled in both hands, and stared blankly at the counter. After last night, he’d really thought things would be better. Sure, the tension between him and Dean had eased, and his brother was a little less on edge, but the change wasn’t as dramatic as he’d hoped. Logic told him not to expect miracles overnight, but there was something… All the pieces were there, he was sure. If he just turned them right, like a kaleidoscope, they’d fall into an understandable pattern. He took a long sip of coffee. His gaze focused on the box of catering gloves by the knife block.

Oh. Was it that simple?

He emptied his mug and took a walk down to the dungeon. The Men of Letters who’d designed it had been thorough, providing for all eventualities. There were rings and hooks at various points on the walls, floor, even the ceiling. Sam had to get a stepladder to reach those. He dragged the chair aside and hauled a mattress down from one of the spare bedrooms. He lined the edges of the dungeon with salt, polished the iron of the inlaid devil’s trap, and painted a few enochian wards on the walls for good measure.

  Dean came in just as he was finishing up. “Love what you’ve done with the place. Very _Diary of a Call Girl_.”

  Sam stepped back to admire his handiwork. “Reckon that’ll hold you?”

  “I reckon it’d hold a friggin army.” Dean eyed the various chains dangling from the walls and ceiling. “You always were an overachiever.”

  “Hey, you wanted something stronger.”

  “You know we can’t put Crowley back in here, right? We’d never hear the end of the ‘sex dungeon’ jokes.”

  Sam tried not to flinch. “Dean, you and Crowley, you never-”

  “Dude, no!” Dean pulled a disgusted face, and Sam mentally flipped off dream-Lucifer. “Ugh. I need to go wash my brain.”

  “Dinner’ll be ready when you’re done.” Sam followed his brother out and switched off the lights.

  “You made dinner?”

  “I can cook, y’know.”

  “You have many talents, Sammy, but cooking ain’t one of ‘em.”

  “Screw you, man, I make a mean caesar salad.”

  “Salad don’t involve fire.”

  “You’re such a caveman.”

They bickered all the way to the kitchen. Sam thought his ribcage might crack from happiness. Dean laid the table whilst Sam produced a lasagne from the oven.

  “No garlic bread?” Dean asked.

  “I’m not kissing you after garlic bread. You’re toxic.”

Sam expected a snarky rejoinder about the effect burritos had on him, but Dean filled his plate in silence. Sam added that trigger to the pattern he was building in his head and grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge. They ate in silence for a while, until Dean drained his bottle and put it down with a meaningful thunk.

  “Look, Sam, I gotta ask. You ever done this before?”

  “What, bondage? No, but I did some research earlier.”

  “Of course you did,” Dean said wryly.

  Sam cleared his throat. “Have you?”

  “Long time ago. With Lisa. Just handcuffs, nothing complicated, but it was enough to show me what I… the control thing.” Dean toyed with his fork.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “No point. Like I said, it’s not something we could’ve taken on the road.”

  “Didn’t you miss it?”

  “I had you. That was enough.”

  “Amazing.” Sam sat back in his chair. “What I still don’t know about you.”

  Dean forced a cocky grin. “Helps keep things fresh. Maybe we should send Cain a fruitbasket, say thanks.”

  “Sure,” Sam said, dry as salt. “Anyway, one of the things I read was important is a safeword. Do you have one already?”

  “Yeah, but I ain’t gonna tell you.”

  “You have to. What if something goes wrong?”

  Dean pushed away his plate and looked at Sam with a serious expression. “Safewords are for happy little suburbanites playing with domination. Not for chaining your brother down to stop him slaughtering his way through the state. If we have a safeword, and things do go wrong, the demon, the Mark, will use it in a heartbeat. And kill you in the next.”

  “But-”

  “I trust you, Sammy. Okay?”

  Sam swallowed. Nodded. “Okay.”

  “Good.” The intensity on Dean’s face passed. “Fancy an episode of _Boardwalk_ before bed?”


	5. The Shawshank Redemption

Sam’s stomach felt like he’d eaten a cloud of butterflies. He barely heard a word of _Boardwalk_. His mind was too jittery, too busy tiptoeing towards his plans for later and backing off sharply again. He could face down a nest of vamps with steady hands, but this? Not so much.

They walked down to Room 7B in silence, Dean sporting the tight expression he usually wore at the start of a hunt - the one that meant he was on his guard, tensed to react to anything. Sam flicked on the lights and stood aside, letting him enter first. He gave Sam a flickering glance and strolled into the centre of the devil’s trap with a slight swagger. Sam swallowed against a dry throat, shut the shelves, and leaned against them with folded arms.

  “Strip.”

  Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Sam-”

  “I said strip.”

It wouldn’t work on a hunt, Sam knew that. But here, where the most dangerous thing was Dean himself, where the safety of others depended on Sam anyway, Dean could let him take control. Nostrils flared, lips tight, Dean stripped with brisk efficiency and threw his clothes to the side of the room.

Sam allowed himself a moment to enjoy the view. His brother was wholly unselfconscious about his body, easily naked and blind to his beauty. Sam never tired of watching him. But this wasn’t about indulging himself or feeding Dean’s ego. It was far more important. He circled Dean to reach a chain hanging from the wall, running it through his hands and watching as Dean twitched with every chink of metal. When the padded cuff at the end was in his palm he approached his brother.

  “Arm.”

He secured Dean’s wrist, crossed the room and repeated the process on the other side. Then he went over to the table and fired up the camping stove he’d brought in earlier. There was a rattle behind him as Dean shifted, testing.

  “Little loose, Sammy,” he said, his voice admirably level.

  “The cuffs are engraved with containment runes and made of a silver iron alloy,” Sam said, putting water on to heat. “Which, incidentally, is a really good conductor. I can run an electrical current through you if I need to.”

  “I don’t remember that option in here.”

  “It’s new.”

  “All mod cons, huh?” Another rattle as Dean shifted again. “So, you heating me a nightcap before heading to bed, is that it?”

  Sam smiled. “You don’t get rid of me that easy. Besides, this isn’t just about making you safe.”

  “Yeah, it’s about sex.”

  “No.”

  “That’s disappointing.”

  “Okay, yeah, sex is involved. But like you said last night, that’s not the point.”

  “So what is?”

  Sam turned off the stove and poured the warm water into a bowl. He turned to face Dean, his expression serious. “Redemption.”

  Dean blinked, pulling his head back. “Say again?”

Sam put the bowl down at Dean’s feet and dipped a soft washcloth. He placed it on Dean’s shoulder and squeezed. Warm water ran down Dean’s chest and Sam swept the cloth along in its wake, caressing the skin. Dean watched, eyebrows contracted.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Holy water.” Sam slowly ran the cloth over a nipple, and his breath tripped as the skin around it pebbled. “You aren’t a demon.”

  “I know,” Dean said. There was a tremor in his voice now.

  “What you did as a demon doesn’t matter.”

  “Sam…” He broke off as Sam dipped the cloth again and stroked the column of his throat.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Sam whispered. “None of it. It’s wiped clean.”

He covered Dean’s pulse with the warm cloth, feeling it pick up pace. Then he washed his brother’s body, drinking in the beauty of those sweeping muscles with his hands, never hiding the pleasure he took in the curve of Dean’s neck, hip, buttock. He could feel Dean’s eyes heavy on him, pupils wide and wanting. Slowly, under Sam’s reverent hands, Dean relaxed. He began to lean into the touch, his lips parting, breathing growing heavier. Sam brushed the cloth over his growing erection and smiled at the growl that drew in response.

Then he reached for Dean’s right hand and everything instantly tensed. Dean jerked his arm back sharply.

  “No.”

  “Let me.”

  “Don’t touch ‘em.”

  “I saw how you’ve tried to wash them,” Sam said gently. “Let me.”

  Dean clenched his fingers into fists. “It ain’t about being a demon. I mean, yeah, that didn’t help but… the things I’ve done. The blood on my… It’s not even just the Mark. It’s me. I’m poison. Alistair put me back together with poison in my skin.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “The angels told me. Said my touch corrupts, that I brought down Cas just because we…” Dean drew in a deep breath. “I ain’t touching you again, Sammy. I’ve done you enough damage.”

  “Dean.” Sam blinked back unexpected tears. He wrapped long fingers around Dean’s wrist, brought it to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the inner wrist. “I’m not a saint either. I’m as damaged as you.”

He uncurled Dean’s little finger, took it into his mouth, and slowly sucked the length clean. Dean’s jaw fell and his groin jerked. Sam felt a pull deep in his chest. He loosened the fist with no resistance and wrapped his lips around the base of Dean’s ring finger. The silver band heated up fast under the heat of his tongue and colour washed across Dean’s face. Sam swept his tongue around the digit and pulled off an inch at a time.

  “Sam,” Dean said hoarsely.

  “I’m not spending the rest of my life without your hands on me.” Sam held his gaze, eyes burning. “Get over it, get busy living.”

  Dean gave a cough of surprised laughter. “Dude, did you just quote _Shawshank_ at me?”

  “Seemed appropriate.”

Sam wiped the cloth across Dean’s palm and took the tip of his middle finger between gentle lips. Then he sucked down past the knuckles and Dean exhaled sharply. Sam smiled, licked his way off, tasting the tang of sweat and musk. He dipped the cloth again and ran it down Dean’s arm, across his shoulder blades and up to the other wrist. He took his time with the fingers there, tugging with the pressure of his mouth, biting the calloused pad of Dean’s thumb, pressing a fervent kiss to the palm. Dean watched with hungry, hopeful eyes, breathing rapidly. Finally Sam washed back down his arm, kissing open-mouthed and tongue-hungry over the Mark.

  “You’re not poison,” Sam said in a low voice. “You’re not stained. No more than me.”

  “Sammy…”

  “I’ve made you safe. I’ve cleansed you. Trust me.” He knelt at Dean’s feet, moving the bowl to one side.

  “What’re you -”

  “Trust me,” he said again.

He curled his fingers around one ankle and lifted it to rest in his lap. Then he washed it with firm sweeps of the cloth, running up the calf, circling the knee, moving slowly up the inner thigh to Dean’s groin. Dean’s cock quivered at his approach, pearling pre-come, but he stopped millimetres away and set Dean’s foot back on the ground. He reached for the other one and Dean lifted it in readiness. Sam pushed it back flat and trapped it under his hand.

  “Stop it. You’re not in charge, you don’t have to do anything. Just let me.”

Dean swallowed, nodded, closed his eyes. Sam leaned forward and kissed his way from ankle to hip. He licked the salt from behind Dean’s knee, bit gently at the flesh of his thigh, breathed up the crease of his pelvis until his cock was pressed hotly against Sam’s cheek. Sam caressed behind Dean’s balls with the warm cloth and his brother’s head fell back with a groan. Then he took the tip of Dean’s cock into his mouth and the chains chinked as Dean’s entire body trembled. Sam swirled his tongue in a circle around the head, found the ridge of vein and followed it down, down, breathing past his gag reflex, until Dean’s cock pressed against the back of his throat and panting echoed off the walls.

  “Jesus, God, Sam...”

Sam hummed his amusement at Dean’s holy trinity, and swallowed down a spurt of pre-come. He withdrew slowly, held Dean’s cock in delicate fingertips and flicked it repeatedly with his tongue, open-mouthed, until every brush of impact made Dean jerk. He refreshed the cloth, then sucked back down to the root with a firm pressure that made Dean arch onto the balls of his feet. At the same time, he pressed the cloth to the base of Dean’s spine and squeezed. Warm water trickled down between Dean’s cheeks. Sam followed the path of it with a trailing finger, sliding deep to nudge against Dean’s hole.

  “Fuck!” Dean jerked forwards, pushing himself further into Sam’s mouth. “Sam, fuck, please...”

Sam pulled off abruptly and stood up in a rustle of clothing. He ducked under the chains and ran a finger lightly down Dean’s spine, watching the skin shivering from his touch. He fumbled the lube out of his pocket, coated his hand liberally, and swept up from Dean’s balls to his hole. One finger slid into that dark red heat, muscles rippling around it, and they both exhaled. Sam’s jeans became a painful inconvenience. Dean sagged slightly, spreading his legs to sink deeper.

  “There a plan for how this is gonna work?” he said, his voice harsh. “Coz if it’s all just cock-teasing, you and I are gonna have a serious falling out.”

  Sam pushed a second finger in, scissoring, and Dean’s head rolled back. “I’m going to make you come so hard you pass out.”

  “Good… good plan.”

Dean stuttered into silence as Sam eased him open with a third finger. His shoulders and neck flushed, highlighting freckles. Sam dropped fleeting kisses on them, the ends of his hair brushing Dean’s skin. His free hand slid round Dean’s ribs and splayed open across his chest, pulling him close.

  “I trust you never to hurt me,” he whispered past Dean’s ear. “I trust you.”

Then he stepped away entirely. Dean groaned a little at the loss of his touch, his fingers, his embrace. He sagged in the chains, body blazing with need, and the sight alone was almost enough to set Sam off. He bit his inner cheek hard and stripped with fumbling hands. The mattress he’d brought down earlier was leaning against the wall. He threw it down and it landed with a booming thump in front of Dean, who lifted his head and smirked.

  “Better.”

Sam tugged a quick-release rope and both chains ran free through the wall rings. Taken by surprise, Dean fell forward onto his hands and knees. Moving swiftly, Sam transferred the chains to rings set into the floor and pulled them tight. Dean ended face-down across the mattress, arms spread, immobilised and inviting. Sam spread his legs apart, pushing until his knees were under him, and ran hungry hands from ass to shoulders.

  “Sammy…”

  “You’re not in control.” Sam coated himself in a fist of lube and pulled Dean’s cheeks apart. “You can’t stop me. You can’t hurt me.”

He lined his cock up with Dean’s hole and pushed in smoothly, slowly, god, so tight and hot and sweet, Dean just taking it, taking him, taking all of him, he couldn’t stop, and Dean was keening with want, the noises undid him, the ripple of muscle around his cock, he couldn’t breathe, everything was tight and needful and filled with heat. He bottomed out and dragged a ragged breath, seeing stars.

  “You would never hurt me, Dean.” He withdrew most of the way, and then slid slowly back in. “And I’ll never leave you.”

Dean made a wounded sound and his arms went soft, pliable. Sam smoothed over Dean’s hips, palms gentle, and bent to kiss his spine.

  “I’ll never leave you.” Out and in, slow and smooth, building the tension like sand through an hourglass. “Never.”

Out, in, out, in, breathing deep like drinking, the swell of waves within and between as the soft darkness rose, a warm tide that cradled and soothed and banked coals under skin, whispered promises sliding through tousled hair like silk threads binding, closer, closer, out and in, hands caressing, bodies surging as the ripples built, treacle sucked at Sam’s toes as he pushed deep and Dean cried out and they trembled together, the wave sweeping up and over with piercing sweetness, stealing air and thought and leaving only love filling every empty space of their bodies.

Sam was blind, floating on a gentle eddy of sensation. It slowly subsided as his body once again began feeding him information. He was draped over Dean, who lay motionless on the mattress. The sweat was cooling on them both and Sam’s knees were aching. He raised his head, still bleary, and took some of the weight on his arms.

  “Dean?”

No answer. Sam craned forward to see his brother’s face. Dean’s eyes were closed. There were tear tracks on his cheeks but he looked peaceful. Sam followed the curve of his body down his right arm to the Mark. It was pale, like an old and faded scar, and smooth under the skin. Sam smiled shakily, swallowing. He pulled gently out of Dean, got up and relit the stove. When the water was warm, he took off the chains and washed his brother clean.

  Dean stirred just as he was finishing. “Sammy?” he said, thick with semi-consciousness.

  “I’m right here.” Sam kissed his temple. “Sleep. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “‘Kay.”

Dean curled onto his side and slipped easily back under. Sam fetched a blanket, turned off the light and wrapped himself around his brother. He didn’t dream that night.

 


	6. Book of the Damned

Sam called Castiel a few days later, to let him know they were off to Durham, Washington to hunt a werewolf.

  “Are you sure that’s wise?” the angel asked, not sounding sure at all. “The plan to take some time off is a good one.”

  “Yeah, and we have, and it’s been great, but Dean’s getting restless. I think he just needs to prove to himself that he’s in control again.”

  “What if he isn’t? What if the Mark is too strong?”

  “We’ve been working on the Mark.” Sam tossed a clean shirt into his duffel bag with his free hand. “It’s got a lot paler, like, you almost have to know it’s there in order to see it. Dean’s a lot more relaxed, too. And he’s sleeping better.”

  “Sam…” Castiel’s voice dropped, warning. “The Mark is ancient and evil. It doesn’t just get better. What have you done?”

  “Relax, man, we haven’t made any crazy deals or anything. Look, Crowley told Dean the Mark would make him sick if he didn’t kill. Dean said it was like he was a junkie for death, right?”

  “What have you been killing?”

  “Cas, would you just chill for a second?” Sam retrieved a pair of engraved handcuffs from the nightstand and tucked them into a side pocket. “We figured out a way to get the same effect without killing anything. Think of it like a heroin addiction. Crowley’s solution for the sweats and the vomiting was to give Dean more heroin. Mine was to give him methadone.”

  “I don’t understand. Are you saying Crowley was drugging Dean?”

  “Basically, yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s a giant douchebag? I mean, he got Dean to take the Mark in the first place, right? So it makes sense that he wanted him pepped up on it.” Sam cradled the phone against his shoulder and zipped up the bag. “Anyway, the good news is we’ve found a way to make it better, or at least weaker. If that changes, I’ll call.”

  “Thank you. Good luck with the hunt.”

Sam hung up, slung his bag over his shoulder and went to find his brother.

* * *

Days passed, then weeks. They hunted, because Dean still felt the need to prove he wasn’t a demon, that he could do enough good to make up for all the black-eyed bad. But the more they hunted, the less relaxed he got and the less effect sex had on the Mark. After the showdown with Cain, Sam finally had to admit that he was fighting a losing battle. That’s when he turned to Charlie.

They met up with her in one of Bobby’s old cabins and, for a few hours, Sam allowed himself to hope again. There was a cure in the book Charlie had brought, there had to be. Yes, there’d be a price to pay, and Sam would pay it willingly to save his brother. But Dean put his foot down. After he’d slammed out of the cabin with orders for them to destroy the book, Sam sat in front of his laptop lost in thought. He replayed the last few months, where he’d gone wrong, what he could have done better, until there were bloody, bitter grooves worn in his thoughts and he was grateful for Charlie’s interruption.

  “What did Dean mean? When he said you changed your mind?”

   Mostly grateful. She could have picked a better topic. Sam explained - haltingly, badly, without specifics - about Ezekiel and the fall-out, but his mind kept circling back to its earlier track. “There’s always one more job, you know? And one more job, and one more job, and then I was gonna go back to law and to my life.”

  “You were the Dread Pirate Roberts of hunting,” Charlie said with a weak smile.

  “Yeah.” Sam laughed dutifully. “I guess I really understand now that… this is my life. I love it. But I can’t do it without my brother, I don’t wanna do it without my brother. And if he’s gone then I don’t…” He broke off, jaw working so as not to cry.

  “I got it,” Charlie said quickly. “I do.”

  Sam wiped his mouth, took a breath for control. “I’ve been fighting this so hard, you know?”

  “Hey, we’ll figure it out. There’s got to be a way.”

  “I’ve been looking, Charlie, believe me.” Sam ran a shaky hand through his hair. “This book is the only thing left to try, and if he won’t let us use it...”

  “Then we’ll find something else,” Charlie said firmly, sitting on the sofa opposite. “It’s not like it’s going to kill him. We’ve got time.”

  “No, we don’t. It won’t kill him, it’ll change him. He’ll become a demon again, or worse, and I think… I think he always knew that’s what it would come to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Sam put it laptop carefully aside, concentrating hard on lining the edge up with the table so he wouldn’t start crying. “Something he said, back when he was, y’know… But then he got better, and what we were doing was helping, and for a while I thought… I guess he really meant it.”

  “Meant what?” Charlie asked softly, leaning forwards. “What did he say?”

  Sam looked at her with heartbreak in his eyes. “That what he was going to do to me wouldn't be mercy. And then he gave me hope.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... yeah. I like Greek tragedy. Sorry. If you fancy an additional kick in the teeth, now go and watch this SPN music video: 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xSkBZyQlEUE&list=LLFoa6rguOtKunzO9ZyPu_nQ&index=5
> 
> And, if you don't hate me, please consider giving kudos!


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